


Bloody Pavement

by Hunter_Caprittarius



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Character Study, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hunter_Caprittarius/pseuds/Hunter_Caprittarius
Summary: Over and over, the scene played in John's head, ending each time with Sherlock, dead and unforgiving.A deeper look at John's reaction to Sherlock's death.





	Bloody Pavement

Hands grabbed and pulled endlessly at John's arms, prying him away, begging him to leave. But John Watson's eyes stayed glued to the body, Sherlock's body. His was face blanched, wan, and empty; his eyes were hollow and unseeing; and his dark hair stuck to the side of his face and the pavement, pasted there by the blood running from the wound.

Over and over, the scene played in John's head, ending each time with Sherlock, dead and unforgiving.

Voices buzzed in his head, asking questions. They settled in one ear, circulated emptily, then fell out of the other ear. He became vaguely aware of himself answering. Surely, he thought, I can't be telling them anything worthwhile. And that was all the thought he gave the matter.

Most of his mind was occupied by the millions of things happening instantaneously.

Regrets filled his lungs, choking him. He never told Sherlock Holmes what he ought to have. He would never get the chance. He would never understand the conundrum that was Sherlock Holmes in the way he wanted to.

Shock, horror, confusion, anger, greif, and all those regrets fell upon John Watson's damaged heart all at once. The combined force upon it made John gasp for breath, a hand flying to his throat. Then everything caved. John's heart crumpled and tore into a million shreds, then the peices fell from his body and scattered in the trail of the gurney that was carrying Sherlock away, taking John's heart with it.

It was over before the tears quivering at the very cusps of his eyes had a chance to fall, and John Watson was left empty. He used to be space that filled only halfway, a lost man, wandering the streets, searching for purpose. Then Sherlock Holmes came along and filled his life all the way up, until it overflowed and pushed all the old parts out, becoming John's everything. So when Sherlock died, there was nothing left, just a shell.

\/\/\/\/\\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

John Watson had made a habit of visiting Sherlock's grave, even though he hated it.

The slab of polished rock, engraved with the words SHERLOCK HOLMES, managed to spark more emotion in the sad, meloncholly man than entire weeks worth of his meaningless existence. Others would tell you that John Watson recovered quickly and was, by now, completely back to normal, better than before even. But that wasn't true at all. It had been months and John hadn't recovered in the slightest. He could hardly even wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock was gone. If only people could see past the mask he wore; they wouldn't think he was fine.

In reality, he was a sick mess.

He would accidentally respond to things he thought he heard Sherlock say. He would have entire conversations with the dead man before realizing he was talking to himself. He would set two places at the dinner table, even though Sherlock barely ate, even when he was alive. Every now and then he would hallucinate and think Sherlock was standing right next to him, only to reach out and find nothing but air and disappointment.


End file.
